


Five Futures That Will Parry Never Found

by trinityofone



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, Post canon, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-30
Updated: 2004-11-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>or:</i> Parry Among the Women</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Futures That Will Parry Never Found

I.

When he was twelve years old, Will was already a murderer. But there were mitigating circumstances involved, things beyond his control. Besides, he’d had a choice, and he’d decided that he was not going to let that one incident (or the incidents that followed) set any sort of pattern for his life. He would not be defined by an act.

His dæmon is cat-shaped. At night, she sneaks out the window of their flat and hunts rats and mice and too-slow birds. Sometimes, in the morning, there’ll still be blood on her mouth.

Will doesn’t say anything.

II.

The girl is just blonde enough, and her eyes just green enough, and her smile just mischievous enough. The accent is wrong, but for what Will has in mind, there’ll be little opportunity for talking.

They go back to his flat. The girl coos when she sees the black cat perched on his kitchen counter, but Kirjava hisses and spits when she comes close, then angrily races away. Will makes his apologies, and then, according to plan, not much is said for a while.

In the daylight, she looks less and less like Lyra. Will won’t be seeing her again.

III.

Mary is more than a friend. She’s like the older sister he never had. Like a second mother to him, really. Always there when he needs her.

The night Elaine Parry dies, Will goes walking in the rain. He arrives at Mary’s flat soaked to the skin, so Mary makes him take off his wet clothes and sets him in front of the fire with a warm blanket and some hot tea. Will watches her through dry eyes.

He wants her to know what she means to him. Standing, he decides to tell her the only way he knows how.

IV.

Will has a lot of answers to the question, “What happened to your fingers?” Car door, he’ll say. Frostbite. Bizarre skiing accident.

Or if he’s feeling particularly sardonic (or drunk): _knife fight._

The women especially are inclined to ask. To take his hand and cradle it gently between their own, and with practiced caring and affection, coax the story out of him. So he doesn’t mind telling it.

But he knows he’s waiting; waiting for the one woman who will meet his eyes without questions, fill the gap in his hand with her own fingers, and not say a thing.

V.

Tell me the story of your life, says the harpy guarding the entrance to the land of the dead.

And William Parry says, I spent sixty years dreaming of other worlds and waiting for this moment.

That’s not good enough, says the harpy. And she rakes his flesh with her claws.

Will wakes to find himself lying on the bench in the Botanic Garden. A layer of frost coats his skin, but his blood is still flowing. Literally flowing: for Kirjava has bitten him, bitten deep into the palm of his hand.

Will pulls himself together and leaves that place.


End file.
